


Let’s Fall as One.

by siano_t



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Blood and Violence, Comfort/Angst, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/F, F/M, M/M, Mind Manipulation, More Relationships to be added, Multi, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Harm, Suicide Attempt, Talon - Freeform, characters added as they come, shock therapy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-02
Updated: 2019-11-02
Packaged: 2021-01-20 19:03:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21286661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/siano_t/pseuds/siano_t
Summary: “Amenity.. What is that? Is that a feeling?”While promised redemption from Overwatch, he’s made self aware that he is and will never be the same. He then confides in someone that wants to clear him of his demons.
Relationships: Sigma | Siebren de Kuiper/Reinhardt Wilhelm
Comments: 1
Kudos: 41





	Let’s Fall as One.

Quantity wasn't always quality. That was a phrase he'd always go by during his cogitating hours. Counting each iota, every worth would do him good, rather, his studies. The more the better. During a specific selective hour, he'd discreetly elected a young hare, floundering around with its lovely black ears and twinning black eyes. Settling the quaint thing in his methodical arena, he'd perform his experiences mercilessly, hard-bitten to the chill bone, gaze shimmering with a glaze and a dent in his cheek. Each time, the hares' eyes would form a deep crimson. Perfectly perfect. He'd do this a few more times, the young thing. Double, triple, quadruple, just enough to confirm his hypothesis, and to satisfy him with the vindication of being able to press his pen to paper. He learned something new each day.

Profound and stricken— caught deep into his thoughts, a bolt strings through the veins of his brain. It sends his vision white and mouth at froth. Oh, dear. That one was quite the doozie.

His blunt fingernails abraded the skin on his neck and his scalp. It was a virtually perpetual habit, one he'd do till he discovered the petrifying sight of hemo, something he had picked up at the start of Talon's very 'unique' kind of treatment, preserved only for him. Of course, upon hearing that, he was delectably ecstatic. Why? It was a new treatment, one of bulky machines, remote controllers, and shiny, shiny bolts that clicks to his head.

Another shock projected in waves throughout his cerebellum. This one is telling him to quit clawing at his skin. And so he does.

Oh, this terrible, terrible pain. All from a thumb on a button. He deserved this. Indefinitely, indubitably.

The bolts to the metal door that concealed his madness clicked, swinging wide open. It's her, noted Siebren, the orange-haired one. Conspicuously, she must have been a doctor of some sort. And seemingly the only one. Siebren eyed her curiously. She certainly didn't look like one, however, it didn't seem to matter. The vast velocity, the greater virtue of the room (the machines) would overtake his thoughts, every part of his brain. Thoughts of this lady along with everything else faded to a dim, sizzling white, erupting with lightening bolts that looked much like a bad-weather day. Oh, how he missed those. “Refrain at once.”

Yes, ma'am. Of course. His pupils stain with water, dilated from this divine, pitiful mess. His knuckles burn and peel, insisting its way between his jaw. How.. _jittery_.

Moira O'Deorain's heels clacked on the floor panels. She approached him. He's delicately on his knees, gnawing on his knuckles and looking as sorrow as an infant. Eyeing him eminently, she perceived the glands of sweat, his glossy leer. Her sharp fingernails then reach for the mic that curved around her earlobe. “Repose. A spike of alprazolam should do just fine.”

He'd apologise, anything for the pills but he knew he wasn't allowed to speak. Little pain remained brittle on his tongue. It had dulled down to a light throbbing similar to a headache. He folded his fingers and subtly placed them in his lap. Horripilation, it felt like, the simple precision of him performing something so dainty; she'd cringe, yet, it was she that was the mastermind of the clicker. Siebren fumed at his fingers, slobbering all over his flesh and impaling the tips of his tiger fangs into his cartilage. She delicately ran a hand over his head. A sentinel from outside the mental latitude intruded the moment, showcasing their comely variety of sized needles— to which Siebren de Kuiper drooled at.

“All is well,” she soothed, not so much assuringly but the man feels it firm against only his chest, nothing deeper. She attempted to sooth him, but it didn't quite work. Gazed eyes, a luminous blue but now on the very brink of anopia, became tear-filled and retreated to the roof of his lids. The case with needles lingered near. Behind, more sentinels. A fluorescent orange, dimmed with an over-layer of purple, all the same a pretty vindictive— it's flashing before his eyes like never before. It's like fireworks, like he's discovered something amazing, something crucial. Fire crackers celebrated his findings that one day, but this was not at all the same. This was delicious, antagonising pain, and was she merciless with the invariable pushing of the thumb, indeed.

He hadn't been allowed to think, not allowed to ponder regardless of how smart they all knew he was, and everything he was capable of. Something as simple as a daydream, an over-lasting thought, or something as bland as a lingering gaze that lasted just a millisecond overdue resulted in a couple shocks— it kept him indiscreet, stupid and controlled. It restrained him from thinking at all. That was the treatment. Pills and shocks like lightening would keep him tame, it limited his thoughts and even his desire to even want to think. It'd prevent ideas and plans on escaping or furthering his capabilities they somehow managed him to forget. He's just as dangerous as he is efficacious. Under shock treatment, however, he's just as clueless as a brainless gerbil.

Her hand had comforted him in the merest way possible. If anything, it shredded what very little composure he had left, leaving him to feel like everything but human. That must've been it.

~

Nonetheless, this was all a mere memory, a flashback, but Siebren couldn't part it from reality, seeing it as very very real, he could almost feel it. Doubting Angela's many assurances and her calm labeling of it being a hallucination, he still did not at all find it even the least but related to one. The shocking would often do that. He was never not hallucinating, and was caught often chatting happily with someone, or something, named Altviool. The sentinels and Talon members would attempt to communicate with him to try and understand who or what Altviool was, but he'd had already forgotten by the time they had got the sentence out.

“Siebren,” the lady doctor would speak. He's fidgety in the knees, pulled up against the pit of his chest. Beneath the covers, he's high-strung, completely trembling. The doctor was young with incessant blonde hair, something he was prolonged to stare at whenever she attempted to sooth him. Partly, it worked. “Do you feel alright?”

To that specific question, he'd always mumble nonsense, not to her, and certainly not to himself. It'd been bold and certified that this was a true mystery, a question, that, was the man even able to distinguish his hallucinations from reality?

Her fingers gently pry for the sheets, and he's left an uncovered, stuttering mess. “W-wait!” He blurted, fingers grasping out for the redeeming blankets. He sounded like a two-year old.

Her manicured fingers run the blanket down his knees. She leaves it at that, covering only his clothed feet, something he was not genuinely used to yet. She considerably folded the cloth against the mattress. Her brows would calmly arch, Lilliputian pupils dilating in infernal fascination. But of course, she's a doctor, only naturally full of worried and caring senses. She didn't see him as anything further than a patient.

**Do you feel alright?**

I don't know.

**Ambivalent.**

I'm not alright, I promise.

**How pathetic.**

“I, uh.. I'm not quite sure,” Siebren stuttered, holding a palm to his temple. 

**You look unsure.**

I am, aren't I?

“That's quite alright.” She's visibly comely for her age, noted the man. She had been beaming to herself, warmly, calmly. Her voice— a delicacy, the very carillion (**What is that melody?**) of angels themselves. Her voice lulls with great remedy, my, is he shaking in his flesh. Her fingers, tender and sincere, clasp over his own that is nail-deep into his scalp. It loosens his strength and he isn't relatively sure how this is possible, by scientific meaning.

His heart rate descended to an extent. He's utterly cold, yet so dreadfully warm. An amiable wave cascades his body, and it isn't the little red liquid on his brow. He's confused, so beyond turbulence that he can't quite figure out the simple equations for what is causing this feeling. "Why? Why? Why is this— this _feeling_? What _is_ this?"

No less than a second had she been running over, and to others’ viewing, was visibly sweating to keep his hands from himself, ready to claw. She virtually cooed at him. Her face twists into utmost pity— and he utterly despises it. He sneers at her, uncontrollably. “_What is this_?! _Release me_!”

He's simply viewing grey. His vision isn't excelling in this moment, but he is, however, able to shift and make out a voluminous man take lead from Angela, who's supporting her worry from behind. Siebren's frail wrists are taken into a bulky grasp, one not even his depleted sense of gravity could rid of. What is happening? His nostrils furnish in a comforting, but overall puzzling scent. The flesh on his face fixates on the feeling of thin cotton scopes over plain muscle. A neck. And a shoulder. How.. allieviating. 

The grumbles and vibrations from him, the simplicity of this soft-pedal. It soothed him. He said something, something Siebren couldn't quite make out, but it vanquished whatever agitation had been there, prior from Angela. He shuts his eyes. He doesn't run from the dark that is full of celestial black pianos and the branches of humanity. He's tugged violently into the light, and at this, he saintly narrowed upwards so his nose is pressed against the form of a collar. “Make it stop. _Please_. Make them stop.”


End file.
